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Jene'e Patitucci Nov 2012
my face

is

soaked;



...each tear tastes like your lips
© 2012 Jene'e Patitucci
Tammy M Darby Aug 2013
The working man
Carries the weight of the country on his back
Works half his life to pay government tax
Taxes for death
Taxes for war
Rue the day when the working man
Says
No more

Stolen their hard earned wages
Gained by toil and swea
While walls of democracy protect the thieves
In order of  power and rank

Homes repossessed while corporations are saved
Jobs lost by the millions
Living on the streets
No clothes for warmth
No food for the children to eat
How much more will the working man take


Hard earned tax dollars
Given against our will
Used to topple other countries
Under the guise of freedom
****

The working man pays for those who dont
The working man pays for those who wont
The taxes are getting higher
The working man now refuses to pay
The weight is getting heavier
Despite what lying politicians say

You should have listened to my words
When I said come the day
On their backs no more
Will the working man bear
Civil war is calling
There is blood is in the air


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base.  All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby
Filmore Townsend Jun 2013
with absolute precision of word. perfe-
ction of knowledge, of understanding.
for comprehension of origination and
history likened to something close in
introduction to a new animal. lead-in
to the true worth of a lost train of
thought. with quality of commentary
rare to be made sense of, found pretty
spot on from earlier life. and train of
thought finds unison with subcons-
cious streaming. that, with dreaming
thought, have culminated in child of
analytical mind though allowed to pro-
lapse in priorities. and with such loss
of grip came suffering of progress,
suffering of forward learning. reaching
heights in a lower level of intellect. all-
owed to linger without mental challe
-nge. and contemplated premature, a formed
plan involving no furthuring of positive out-
come. contemplate primordial retaliation.
and left to achieve more than dead, left to be
found in a vacant lot. and more only conc-
erns that of Natural cessation. seen as option
after pinpoint of knowing failure, some
vacant and the rest left to carbon. to return to
the *****, return to the end of procreation
this physical being. and ‘.. fear not
the thorns or the sharp stones on Life’s path’
and both the brambles and shunts are Pride’s
drawing of blood for to deter wisdom from
either being sown or reaped. though being
sees life in spite of ends means with
continuous derangement and isolation of
night, carried through with lack of ful-
mination of soul. and only ******* is
truth in the comment on kindred soul or
shared. remembrance of scribbled table
lost to self-ful faults. ‘Please destroy me’
imbedded in faux veneered black.
and on this day, as in that summer of swea-
ting. time of wasted thought, trading
blood for a bill spot. wasted knowingly
with opinion of perpetual recreation, with
ignoring the scarred body left as image of
******. and heavy are our eyes with the
wine of ages, and ears prevail in under-
standing happenings we wish our
absolute evasion of. heavy in moments
of isolation, we lack self-deprecation in
movements forward without lust for
body or soul. and fifteen with hope to
be infinite of lifetime. with hope for
perfection unobtainable. with words of
‘here lie the remains of him who wrote on
heaven’s face in letters of fire’ echoed forth
man of truth. him beyond we, transcended
thru ages of changed thought. lightening
of the heart and five days out, and
his Prophet portrayed the sails of ships as
coming death. cyclical incarnate and we the
undeniable will to traverse a sea of the poly.
and we the paradisal will to be six days out.
Jordan Fox Dec 2013
My grandmother says
A pretty girl like you?
I bet you have thousands of suitors.
I look at her, laugh, and say:
Suitors?
Su itor?
Swe itor
Swea tor
Sweater.

And then I put on a sweater
Because I always seem to be cold.

— The End —